


him, in colors

by captaincastello



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, Now with images!!!, Painting, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 10:32:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14913737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincastello/pseuds/captaincastello
Summary: Painting is not about replicating the world; it’s about interpreting and improving on it, showing something you see.Each time Markus grabs hold of a brush, his every stroke, every application of pressure on the canvas, every flick of his wrist are calculated, precise; yet he doesn’t aim for what’s perfect, but for what’s real.And every time he closes his eyes, a loud, irrevocable truth always manifests itself in strong waves, overwhelming his systems—the entirety of a deep blue ocean held captive in a pair of beautiful eyes, the vibrant gold of the sun caught in the crown of rich blond hair—





	him, in colors

**Author's Note:**

> whew, i am still reeling from the emotional carnage this game has left in its wake.  
> it's getting late so i'm leaving this unbeta'd, will probably get back to proofreading this at a later time  
> this is my first fic for dbh; i hope you all find something to enjoy about it <3
> 
>  **edit:** GUYS
> 
> THIS REALLY WONDERFUL ARTIST, deviant-yn200 MADE SUCH AMAZING MASTERPIECES BASED ON THE PAINTINGS IN THIS FIC, AND GAVE ME PERSMISSION TO PIN THEM UP IN HERE ToT PLS DO CHECK OUT THEIR WORKS!! <3
> 
> **!!edit!!:**
> 
> i'm so sorry, i had to remove the link to the artist's tumblr as it seems they have deactivated it, and it was called to my attention that the now useless link led to a porn site, so i felt like i had to take it down D: but if you knew the artist by their username, or are following them on another platform/fandom, do feel free to show them your support and/or let them know how awesome they are!! \\(^o^)

Four—that was the total number of paintings he’d done since their victory.

Markus had gone home—unlike most of his fellow androids who were either thrown out or ran away from their previous owners, he always had a place to return to in Carl’s mansion, who was also quite happy and thankful to  have his son come back to him again—and while his mornings and afternoons were quite bombarded with scheduled meetings with the President, various government officials and private company owners, and press conferences, he made it absolutely clear that his evening hours were his own; a practice of his own rights to privacy and personal recreational time.

With Carl mostly bedridden since his return—he was still weak, yet thankfully on the way to a steady recovery—Markus found himself spending a lot of time in his room, exchanging stories over a game of chess or playing a tune on a musical instrument that he had already been preprogrammed to master. Most of the time, he’d listen to Carl, who would go on lengthy yet remarkable monologues about everything, ranging from his own childhood to the current trends he’d read about on their digital screens. Carl also seemed to gain more strength at an increasingly rapid pace since his coming back home. Far from the bombs and guns and all the action, these peaceful moments were what Markus found he missed the most.

“How is my studio?” Carls asks one night, right after Markus finishes playing _Edel Weiss_ on the piano. “I know you go there whenever you think I’m already asleep.”

“Oh, are you having a hard time sleeping?” Markus replies, his concern directed at his father’s recuperation. Of course, humans and androids operated on different bodily systems, and in his current state, Carl very much required enough time for rest. Markus didn’t exactly need to sleep, despite now having the luxury to put his mind to rest without any threat of an enemy opening fire on him at such inopportune times. These quiet hours of the night, however, he chose to spend in Carl’s studio.

“No, you needn’t worry about that, I’m alright,” Carl says. “Sometimes I just like listening to the soft sound of a brush running along the surface of a canvas.”

Markus understands; art was and always is Carl’s safe place, and that is something that has been imparted in him, too.

_Painting is not about replicating the world; it’s about interpreting and improving on it, showing something you see._

Each time Markus grabs hold of a brush, Carl’s inspiring words direct him in orchestrating a dance of colors on the blank canvas. His every brush stroke, every application of pressure by his fingers and every flick of his wrist are calculated, precise; yet he doesn’t aim for what’s perfect, but for what’s real.

And every time he closes his eyes, a loud, irrevocable truth always manifests itself in strong waves, overwhelming his systems—the entirety of a deep blue ocean held captive in a pair of beautiful eyes, the vibrant gold of the sun caught in the strands of a bright blond crown of hair—

“Do you mind showing me what you’ve been painting?” Carl asks, snapping Markus out of his reverie.

“Of course,” Markus says. There’s nothing he would keep from Carl, and, if anyone could recognize and fully understand the depth of his creations, it would be him.

A few minutes later, four differently sized canvases are carefully placed around the room facing Carl’s bed, each one covered and protected from dust by a layer of cloth. Markus stood beside the first one, ready to give each reveal.

“Companionship,” he says as he takes the cloth off the first in one smooth motion. It’s a simple oil painting of sunlight penetrating a large gaping hole in what looks like an old run-down ship. The focal point of the opus are the silhouettes of two people standing closely side by side, watching the gigantic ball of fire begin its descent into the water beyond.

 

 

Markus steps over to the next one, removes the cloth.

“Dreams,”—a myriad of stars swimming in a dark velvet of night; however the focus is obviously the person with the bittersweet smile, who seems to shine even brighter than all the luminous cosmic bodies.

 

“Harmony,”—two silhouettes resting their foreheads against each other, the black melting around their wrists to reveal two android hands, glowing a bright blue, connecting and syncing with each other.

 

 

“Loss”— dirt, grit, ashes in the air. A limp hand from someone cut out of the picture, lying palm up on the ground. Another hand a few inches beside it, pinkies close enough to touch, but don’t. Both hands are in perpetual parallel lines; always near, yet will never connect.

 

 

Markus is silent after the final one, half-waiting for Carl to speak, half-lost in the deep sea of accumulated memories. Everything that happened to him felt like a long time ago, yet it also seemed like he has only lived through it yesterday. Maybe this paradoxical emotion is an anomaly in his system—or maybe it’s a normal reaction closer to being human.

“This person that you paint,” Carl begins gently, facing Markus. “Apart from yourself in the paintings—they were someone very important to you.”

“He was,” Markus says. “He still is.”

“One of your people who worked closely with you during your revolution.” Carl didn’t have to pose everything as a question, and Markus is thankful that he does understand, without an ounce of judgement.

“Simon,” Markus says, feeling an overwhelming wave overpowering his internal systems once the name escapes his lips.

“He is the reason you were able to come back to me. To our home.”

“Yes,” Markus says, remembering how his entire body was entering shut down in a few seconds, his optical apparatus failing and flickering as Simon’s worried face came into view. Then, the sensation of being rejuvenated, risen from near death. Followed immediately with the discovery and gravity of what he just lost, of death taking a big chunk out of him despite his narrow escape from it.

Those blue eyes would never shine again, the ocean drained away from them.

“It’s strange...” Markus says softly, a hand unconsciously reaching up to cradle the spot in his chest where his mechanical heart lies. “I carry him everywhere, and yet it feels like there’s a hole inside me that nothing else will be able to fill.”

“Come here, son.” Carl beckons him over, and Markus takes a seat beside his bed. It’s only when Carl touches a clean napkin to his face that Markus becomes aware of the tears painting his cheeks.

“Have you ever felt this… emptiness? This… constant lack of something that had taken up a big space inside of you, despite knowing that you are physically complete?” Markus says, his words tumbling out one after the other. “I run periodic system checks, Carl. There’s nothing wrong with my hardware and software—and yet I know there’s always one thing missing.”

Carl draws him into an embrace, his feeble arms steady and firm, the safest place Markus knows right now.

“I understand son,” he says against Markus’ ear, his hands running soothing circles along the curve of Markus’ shoulder blade. “It’s a strange thing—we call it emptiness, and yet it is one of the heaviest things we carry. Most humans live their entire lives riddled with these holes—even I’m guilty of that. But this heaviness also tells us one thing—that it comes from a place of love. We only hurt so much because we have loved so greatly.”

“I wish we had more time,” Markus says, his tears still coming down in rivulets. “The future I’ve been fighting for our people—that I’m still fighting for—included Simon. I painted an image of my ideal future with him by my side.”

“I’m sure he knew, Markus,” Carl says gently, holding his son up as best as he could. “I’m sure he did.”

From across the room, the painting of Simon against the vast night sky continues to smile; his vigor and brilliance immortalized, a vivid echo of the past in colors.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!  
> kudos/comments are love <3  
> p.s. i'll try to write something happier next time


End file.
